It's a Dog Eat Dog World
by DaSwampRat'sCherie
Summary: "It was a mangy mutt, tiny too - it barely reached his knee and it was all skin and bones. He had a shaggy coat, so mud and mats were about 500% more likely to attach themselves. Huh. Clint wondered if the dog was a metaphor for his life." In which Clint finds a stray dog. **Not the fluffy story you're likely expecting.


Fresh air was weird.

Well, as fresh as New York City's air ever got, anyway.

Clint wasn't accustomed to going out just to - ...go out. Whenever he left his apartment - and then the Tower because Tony left 27 messages per day until he said yes (besides, Nat was there) - it was because he had to. He either had some SHIELD mission or Avenging shit to do, so his socialization had purpose.

(He was well aware he was a brooding hermit.)

But it was kinda nice. Not nice enough to do all the time, but every once in a while going out for a cup of coffee might be an okay thing to do.

It was late fall, and so just a tad crisp, so Clint tugged his jacket around him tighter and chose a direction to go off into. He got maybe two buildings away when he heard a _rattle-crash-whimper_, and whipped around to face the alley, his heart pounding and his fingers tightly gripping his knife.

Shoulda' brought his bow, but it was a mid-morning stroll so why would he have needed that anyway?

His eyes zeroed in on the source almost immediately, and then he just felt like a total asshole.

Not a threat. At least, nothing more threatening than slobber and maybe rabies (with how his life went it probably had rabies).

"Hey, buddy. Whatcha' doing there?" He called softly, making himself as low and non-threatening as he could manage.

The little dog still cowered. It was a mangy mutt, tiny too - it barely reached his knee and it was all skin and bones. Its fur was probably a light reddish-brown, but it was so covered in grime and gook that it was hard to tell. It didn't help he had a shaggy coat, so mud and mats were about 500% more likely to attach themselves.

Huh. He kinda wondered if the dog was a metaphor for his life or something.

He cautiously approached, and the poor thing tucked its tail even further under itself and pressed against the dumpster.

"Aww, dude, it's okay. Clint's not gonna' hurt you, I promise," carefully - ever so carefully - he managed to get within five feet of the dog, then crouched into a squat and let his hands hang limply between his knees.

The dog sniffed the air, still looked terrified and ready to bolt if he so much as blinked to quickly, but slowly, warily, he put one of his little dirty paws out.

Hunching his head down between his shoulders, and looking up at Clint from a submissive angle, he very gingerly made his way over to him.

"Hey there, it's cool. You're safe. Poor guy, what happened to you? It's okay, c'mon," his gentle coos finally attracted the pooch over, and the second his hand made contact with his forehead, the dog whimpered - not in pain or fear, but in pleasure.

Clint couldn't help but huff out a laugh, the action crinkling the corners of his eyes and keeping a grin plastered onto his face.

"You like that, huh? Feels pretty good, doesn't it?" He continued to scratch behind his ears, and the dog stepped forward to the point that he was all but sitting in Clint's lap.

Clint spent a few more minutes petting him, trying to decide what to do. He didn't want to bring him into the Tower. It was pretty damn presumptuous to assume he could just bring in some half-alive possibly-rabid dog without permission.

The dog probably had a worried owner; it wouldn't be right to take him even if he could.

Anyway, Clint certainly couldn't take care of it. He wasn't good enough to take care of his own needs. How could he justify inflicting himself on this dog?

No, the dog deserved far better than he could ever dream of offering.

But...Maybe he could at least clean him up a little. And give him some food. And maybe built a little lean-to for it.

It was settled then.

Clint spent another few beats petting the cutie, then deliberately stood up - no sudden moves to scare Dog - and walked out of the alley.

. . .

Coffee forgone in lieu of the puppy (well, dog, it did seem to be full grown just small), Clint hustled it up to his floor of the Tower to grab a few things. It wasn't until he had some food, a bowl of water, a few ratty blankets, and a tarp all shoved hastily into a backpack that he was satisfied. He ran into Stark on the way out.

"Legolas! Could it be? Are you actually going out? On your own?" He put a dramatic hand on Clint's forehead. "Are you feeling sick? Need me to call a doctor? Think you can ever play the violin again?"

Clint huffed and batted the hand away in a display of irritation that was just as over the top as the billionaire's act. "I'm fine, asshat."

"So where you going? Can I come?"

He was saved from the awkwardness of trying to answer that when Pepper ghosted up to Stark's shoulder and said in that pleasant and slightly breathy voice of hers, "Do leave Agent Barton alone, Tony. I'm sure you two can have a play-date later."

Stark pouted - of course he did - but waved him off. "Whatever. I have better things to do anyway."

And like that he was gone, Pepper offering a small apologetic smile before following after.

. . .

Clint made it back to Dog in record time - which was no wonder because it was literally not even two minutes to get passed the couple buildings to the alley. To his pleasure, Dog recognized him and came bounding up. He did stop about a foot away as if realizing Clint was a stranger and could be bad news, but it was the thought that mattered.

"Hey, bud," he murmured more absently than anything, shrugging off his backpack and kneeling in front of Dog. He held out some steak he'd had at the Tower like three nights ago and never finished; Dog sniffed it greedily and licked his chops, but seemed hesitant to take it.

Yep, he was totally a metaphor or simile or whatever it was that reflected a person's life. Maybe it was a parallel. Whatever. He was, dammit!

He set down the beef within easy reach of Dog, then shuffled back a little bit, diggling around in his pack and pretending not to be interested. It still took about thirty more seconds, but then Dog was scarfing down the food like he'd not eaten in days - which was probably accurate.

Clint moved over to the dumpster and began draping the tarp over it to give Dog some shelter, then made a tiny nest out of the blankets he'd brought. The water dish went right in front of it.

Dog had mostly finished the beef, was wheezing a bit because the idiot ate too quickly. Once it was done - Clint knew if he approached while eating, Dog would see that as either a threat and protect his food, or an act of dominance that meant he couldn't eat anymore - Clint went back over to Dog and petted him some more. Leaned against the brick wall of the building and just sat there stroking the now happily panting dog.

Which reminded him, he'd wanted to clean the dog up, so he pulled out the hypoallergenic antiseptic wipes he had in his medkit (mostly at Nat's insistence). Hopefully they'd at least make a dent, even if he finished the whole pack.

He did.

. . .

It was almost dark before Clint finally got the balls to leave the dog, and by then he'd made a plan. If Dog was still there in three days, then it was some cosmic sign and Clint would take him, Stark's bitching and his own inability be damned.

Dog seemed sad to see him go, and, honestly, Clint was sad to go too. But it was the right thing as he didn't want to rush into anything.

"Be back tomorrow, buddy," he got him to lay down on the blankets under the tarp, patted him on the head, then walked away.

. . .

Everyone was asking him where he'd gone that day. Even Banner, who, like, never talked ever.

He shrugged and gave either obscenely stupid answers (mime convention) or secret-agenty vague answers (have you heard of the Mark of Cain Project?). Nat was the only one who didn't ask - at least not verbally. Her small smirks and the twinkle in her eyes conveyed more than amusement, but she knew he'd tell her when it was important.

Stark was especially incessant, though Thor was almost as bad. He kept asking what a skilled warrior such as the Archer could do for fun, when he had only seen him willingly leave the Tower the one time he'd lost a bet and had to go pick up pizza (he was pretty sure Thor was just messing with him at that point.)

He was a master at deception, however, and had even thoroughly showered to get rid of the dog smell and put everything back where it belonged before going to dinner - corndogs because Stark didn't feel like cooking and neither did anyone else in a house of superheroes, and maybe that should have been the cosmic sign he was looking for.

. . .

Clint actually woke up early the next morning. (Okay, so 10:30 was early for him, don't judge). He shrugged into his clothes, grabbed some more food and a tennis ball from the giant gym two floors down, then headed for Dog.

If Clint had thought Dog had been happy to see him yesterday, he was wrong. Because all of the sudden the tiny pooch came bounding towards him and seemed to want to jump but was scared to do so, resulting in this hilariously endearing little hop-thing and these little huffed out barks.

"Hey, hey, there. I'm glad to see you too," he laughed softly, trying to pet the dog but having difficulty because the thing was bouncing around so much. "C'mon, c'mere," he knelt down and let the dog lick his face which, okay, he honestly thought was pretty disgusting but he was finding that he maybe loved Dog and let it slide.

He pulled out some more meat - had to get Dog his protein if he would become big and strong like Clint - and actually sat right next to him while he chowed down on it.

He didn't want to get too attached, really, but Dog was the best thing that had happened since Nat probably, and it had only been two days, so he didn't feel too guilty when he lightly tossed the ball around with him. Dog certainly thought it was the greatest thing, even though they were playing some stupidly filthy dead-end alley that really wasn't ideal for the game at all.

Dog didn't mind, so Clint found he didn't either.

The rest of the day passed by smoothly, and Clint found his heart physically hurt when he said goodbye to Dog at sunset.

Because of that, he felt torn between laughing and crying when the dream team bombarded him with questions about his day that night.

. . .

So it was now day three and, okay, his original plan was three days _from_ day one, meaning he should wait til day four to act, but he was practically shaking with excitement and he didn't care. He was going to take Dog with him today, dammit, if it was the last thing he did.

He got up early - truly early, like seven o'clock - and even skipped morning coffee in order to get to Dog quicker.

His walk was casual all the way to the Lobby, but as soon as he left the Tower, he couldn't help but break into this awkward half-jog.

When he reached the alley, a breathless, "Hey buddy!" left his mouth and his eyes lit up when Dog came lumbering out to greet him.

Except he didn't.

"Dog?" His voice was infinitely softer now, and he took a cautious step forward. "Buddy, you there?"

He approached the tarp, and his heart plummeted past his stomach when he saw it was empty. Maybe - maybe he'd went exploring but would be back. Clint had never been here this early.

He stared at the pile of blankets, chewing on his lip and trying not to get too disappointed.

Sighing, he decided he was being silly anyway. It was just a dog; had probably been found by his owner by now.

That thought had just crossed his mind as he exited the alleyway and stepped back out onto the sidewalk, and, suddenly, time froze.

The glint of the early-morning sun reflected off a reddish-brown lump and he felt bile rise in his throat.

No. No no no.

He ran across the street, ignoring the car horns and colorful New York language. But his fears were just confirmed.

Dog was lying forgotten on the side of the street, his chest caved in, blood oozing from his mouth and pooling beside him - his eyes staring lifelessly ahead. A goddamn hit and run.

"Aww, fuck, no," he murmured, unable to tear his gaze away.

. . .

He went back to the tarp, and grabbed his blankets, gently wrapping Dog's body in them and putting it in the dumpster. Refused to think about what he was doing and how much he had grown to love that goddamn dog. How excited he was when -

His breath hitched and he had to stop. It was stupid to get this emotional over a dumb dog.

By the time he got the courage to wander back to the Tower, Tony was in the lobby chatting up one of the receptionists.

"There you are! Jarvis said you went out earlier. When can I come, are you - ?"

"I won't be going out again," Clint murmured, brushing passed Stark and trudging to the elevator, making extra care that the doors closed before he could be joined.

Some fucking cosmic sign.

* * *

A/N: I broke the cardinal rule of never killing an animal ever. If it makes you feel better, I depressed myself too.

Disclaimer: Aww, Marvel, no

_Follows, Favorites, _and_ Reviews_ much appreciated. You can even flame me for writing such a crappy ending.


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